


Heart in a Cage

by secret_samadhi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sick Dean, and also have sex, canon!verse, seriously so much angst, seriously there is no plot, that is what happens, they lie in bed and talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_samadhi/pseuds/secret_samadhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of time, my Father will return, to collapse the universe back in to nothingness.  But time will not end, because I will still love you, and my love will fill the emptiness.  Your soul will be the sun and my eyes will be the stars and a billion years after the end of time, when life emerges again, our love will be its creation, and they will wear jade jewelry and worship your eyes but their worship will be only a pale shadow of mine, eternal, unending, forever.  This, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart in a Cage

Dean doesn't come down for breakfast. This is unusual, because Dean likes breakfast. Castiel knows this: "Breakfast" is number 43 on the list of things that Dean has said that he likes, right after those cartoons where the anthropomorphic animals murder each other in increasingly implausible ways, and right before coffee. "Black coffee, Cas, not that all-milk crap that Sam drinks." Indeed, that Dean likes breakfast is the only reason that Cas has learned how to prepare it, the only reason that this morning finds Cas in the bunker scrambling chicken eggs and heating the backside of a dead pig instead of engaging in more typical angelic pursuits, like watching the birth of a star, or encasing himself inside a giant redwood tree to experience its memories of the last 500 years.

The stars are beautiful. The trees are beautiful. But Dean... Cas puts a hand over his heart. It is wrapped in a heavy warmth that pulses out to his fingers, where it sparks. _Dean_.

...Is still not awake. And still not awake when Cas makes a pot of coffee. Hesitates. Pours himself a cup. Tastes, apprehensively. Scrunches up his face. Still bitter. Still too hot in his mouth. Here Cas finds himself, with a bitter, scalding drink, the backside of a pig, and no Dean. This human-style morning is not satisfactory. He could be anywhere, anything. Flying, free. Enough.

Cas becomes light. He is a particle. He is a wave. He scatters, iridescent, in a thunderstorm in Pennsylvania. He glints off the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He blinds, as he reflects off the snow of the Alps. On the border between France and Switzerland, he enters the Large Hadron Collider, and accelerates, accelerates, bombards himself against the matter stream again, and again, and again. They are unraveling the Universe there, and Castiel is a part of it. Going faster, faster, faster, until it is not possible to go faster any more. Spinning, colliding, accelerating, he peels back the edges of reality. Castiel inhabits the border between what is unknown and what is unknowable, radiant, weightless, faster than the neurons in a human brain can fire to track his motion.

Until. _Cas, where are you?_ A weak, distant, prayer. _Dean._

One heartbeat passes. Cas is back in the kitchen of the bunker, his mug of coffee cold and congealing. He is heavy, so heavy, now, inhabiting his body again, his bones like pillars of stone. Another heartbeat. The warmth around Cas' heart constricts until it chokes him, he can't breathe. Beat. He is up and out of his chair, knocking it over, rushing to Dean, careless of anything else. Beat. _He's praying to me. If he's praying, he's alive. If he's alive, I can heal him._ Beat. Cas explodes through the door to Dean's room, terrified of what he might find, what mangled corpse, what empty shell, what evidence of blood and torment. "Dean. I'm here. What's wrong?"

"Cas. Use doors much? Geez." Cas notices that he has torn the knob off of Dean's door. He replaces it in its hole, sheepish. "Where were you, man? I been calling." Dean weakly gestures with his phone. His voice is quiet. He is pale, sallow. Dark circles under his eyes look bruised against a bloodless face. A sheen of sweat, feverish, coats his skin. His head is propped up on all of his pillows, his eyes are closed.

"I was a particle." Slight pause. "And a wave." Dean opens only one eye, just. "I didn't have my phone. Or my ears. I didn't hear you." _I would have come if I had heard you. You know that._ "I'm sorry."

Dean closes that half an eye again. "S'OK, Cas. You would have come if you had heard me. I know that." _I was worried when you didn't come. Afraid of what might have been, could have been, keeping you._

"You're not well." The hand around Cas' heart has loosened enough for him to breathe again, but it has also become very heavy. So heavy, it hurts, like it has become iron and his heart can no longer serve its function. "This is why you didn't come down for breakfast, even when you smelled the coffee and the pork products. You still like breakfast." Cas feels relief at that, at least, that he has not misjudged, that Dean's absence at breakfast was not disinterest, or rejection.

A ghost of a smile on Dean's face. "Yeah, I still like breakfast, Cas. Love those pork products." But the smile is short-lived, dissipating as a shiver racks over Dean's body, takes hold. Cas startles, freezes, doesn't know what to do. Dean coughs, sickly. "So cold." And now Cas does know what to do. And acts, before he can stop himself. Two fingers reach out, and touch Dean's temple. Just. Feather-light. Barely touching, but touching.

His grace always wants to flow to Dean, into him, through him, called always by the responsibility he owes to Dean's soul. _When you save a thing, you become responsible for that thing_. Usually Cas resists this pull, though he is not sure why-- perhaps because he fears Dean would find the constant touch of his grace invasive, that Dean would dislike it or outright reject it. But now, he allows just a trickle of himself to flow into Dean, and directs it: _Warmth. Comfort._

Dean's shiver subsides, immediately. His face becomes slightly less pale, as blood returns. His body relaxes into the comfort, sinking somehow deeper into the mattress. He exhales, not quite a sigh, not even a heavy exhale, only, just, just noticeably heavier than the breath before it. The moment when Cas should withdraw his fingers arrives, and passes, and Cas' fingers are still there, just the bare press of his fingertips on Dean's temple. Cas stares at them. Traitors, they do not move. Do not press harder, do not withdraw. Just remain, in lightest contact with Dean's feverish skin. Dean, for his part, does not pull away from Cas' touch, or lean in to it. The moment balances on the edge of a knife. Cas stops breathing. His heart is punching in its cage, now, and he wonders if Dean can hear it. Dean becomes uncannily still. Does the Earth slow, marginally, on its path around the Sun? Do the stars pause their wheeling in the heavens?

Not breaking contact, Cas turns his fingers over, so now two knuckles rest against Dean's head. And, terrified, he draws them down to the edge of Dean's jaw. Slowly. Still barely, barely touching. Still holding his breath. Dean's eyes still closed, his body still unmoving. But he does not tell Cas to stop. And he does not pull away. And so when Cas reaches the edge of Dean's face, he draws his two fingers back up, again. Up, and down. Three times his fingers make this forbidden journey, before he starts to breathe again. He feels like he might lose consciousness each time his heart beats. Could it be that this is why Dean called him here? Knowing that Cas would try to comfort him in his illness, and that this, or something like it, might be the form of that comfort? The thought overwhelms him, and he freezes, unable to contain this thought and control his body at the same time.

"Don't stop," Dean breathes. His eyes are still closed. His body remains still. Cas can almost believe he imagined it. But he did not imagine it. His fingers start to move again, up, and down, and he wonders how this body is containing his heart as it thrashes, now. Dean told him not to stop, and he does not, Dean's words giving him the courage to extend his traitor fingers' path, now up to Dean's temple, down to the hinge of his jaw, forward to his chin, and back again. Slow, over, and over.

"Don't stop," and this time, Cas hadn't stopped, hadn't even been considering it. He reviews the last few moments, and wonders if "Don't stop" this time might mean "More". So this time, when his fingers reach Dean's chin, he rolls them over, so that he can trace Dean's bottom lip with his fingertips. "Dean." He doesn't know why he has said Dean's name, but he says it again. "Dean." He can't not say it. It is the only word he knows. It is the only word he needs.

"Cas." Dean's eyes remain closed, they have to, it is the only way. Though he is still, silent, he is barely keeping it together. If he moves, if he even thinks too hard, this moment is going to overwhelm him, and sick or not, he is going to bolt from the room and never be able to look at Cas again. He will have to move out of the bunker, and into a cave. A cave where no one can ever find him. Where he will abide only in silence, and darkness, and maybe, in a hundred years, be able to forget this moment. A cave where he can forget his fear. And if he opens his eyes, and sees Cas looking at him, staring at him, concerned, loving, _worshipful_ , there will be no cave deep or dark enough, and no amount of time that could ever make him forget. So he keeps his eyes closed. He keeps his body and his thoughts still. And he says, "Cas." If his voice trembles, he does not let himself hear it.

Cas is amazed at what his fingers now dare to do. They find every seam of Dean's lips. They become a hand, and comb into his hair. They call upon his thumb, to brush across the soft skin under Dean's eyes. They spark with his grace, and he wonders whether he should release that tide again. "Dean, I want to--"

But Dean can't hear this. It threatens the homeostasis that he clings to. "Shh," he quiets, softly, but, not wanting it to feel like a rejection, he, eyes still closed, reaches out for Cas' other hand. He can't find it, blind, and Cas doesn't understand what he wants. "Give me your hand, Cas. Don't talk. I can't-- Just give me your hand."

This, Cas does understand. Whatever is happening still hangs in the balance. It is fragile, it could be broken by a sound, by a thought. Cas understands that, for Dean, words could make it implode, and be over forever, never to come again. So he is silent, and will remain silent. And gives his hand to Dean, and will let his hand remain with Dean.

Now Castiel knows that Dean's stillness is not indifference even through the silence, though, because when Dean takes his hand, he guides it directly to his heart. And Dean's heart is hurling itself at its cage just as Castiel's is, just as hard, just as fast, just as frightened of what is happening to it.

Castiel is in an awkward position now, one hand still on Dean's face, the other gripped in Dean's hand, listening to his heart, leaning over Dean's bed. He inches closer, approaching as someone trying to give a sugar cube to a fawn, trying to keep silent, not startle or alarm, not give any reason for the creature to bolt. Until, eyes still closed, Dean's second hand grasps Castiel's arm and tugs. "Cas," he pleads, and Castiel flows in to him like water. A moment ago, two fingers on Dean's face seemed sublime, impossible, but now it is the existence of a finger's breadth between them, anywhere, that seems impossible, unbearable. Everywhere, Castiel fits himself to Dean, and everywhere Cas' skin, every cell, bursts into flame. He is immolated by every touch, and the sum of them all threatens his consciousness, his sanity.

They lay together, silent, unmoving, in stillness and quiet, each afraid that a wrong shift, or gesture, might frighten the other away and end this, whatever it is, before it is even well and truly begun. Warmth grows between them, and as the moments evolve, their fear thaws, slowly, hearts still hammering, heads swimming, fingers gripping tight. There is so much that Cas wants to say, pressed, warm, to Dean. _I love you. I have always loved you. Since the moment I saw you. Somehow, even before then. More than life, more than Heaven. I will love you forever. What do you need? What do you want? What can I give you? I'm so afraid. Why today? Why this time? Why never before?_ But he can't say any of it, for fear of breaking the silence. So, he continues with what he knows is allowed. His fingers continue to trace Dean's face, soft as the touch of falling snow. His hand continues to measure the rhythm of Dean's heart. And he stares. Stares like he has stared a thousand times before--though it is easier, now, in this closeness-- stares _through_ Dean, straight into his soul.

It is on fire. Dean's soul has always been bright, always been beautiful, but now It is a white hot fountain of flame, blazing, burning, _consuming_. "Dean, you're..." he gasps, and then he cannot hold back the tide any longer. Castiel has to, _has to_ , know what it feels like for his grace to be consumed in that flame. In this universe, a compass must point north, and an object with mass must exert gravity, and Castiel and Dean Winchester must be one. Cas cannot resist it more than the earth can resist its orbit of the sun. He releases just a trickle of grace, trying to be cautious, gentle, but the moment, the _moment_ he allows that connection to open, what he intends to be a trickle becomes a wave. It _rips_ out of him. He feels like his heart, his lungs, his ribs have been torn from his chest and then snapped back in to place, elastic. His breath is torn from him in a ragged cry. His grace, sparking, electric, the improbable color of his eyes, wraps around and through the column of fire. Where the two meet, the flame becomes brighter, and the brightness and the beauty bring tears to Castiel's eyes.

_That's us,_ Cas thinks.  _We are so beautiful. He is so beautiful._ Then:  _I wonder if he can even feel it. I wonder if it means anything to him._

Dean says: "Christ Cas, you don't need to talk about me like I'm not here. I'm right here. Right here not talking about feelings, 100% as usual, in case you've forgotten."

Dean thinks: _I can feel it. I can feel every spark. It means everything. It's terrifying._

"Dean, I didn't say anything." _You must have heard my thoughts. We are that much one, grace and soul combined._

"Jesus, so you heard... Jesus. I can't-"

"Shhhhhh, Dean. Shhhhhh," and Cas' grace pulses. Calm. Comfort. _Why are you afraid? Conjoined like this, an angel of the lord and the power of a human soul, there is very little that could harm us, even if you are not at full strength and were we not several stories underground in a bunker with an extremely comprehensive level of warding against evil._

The column of flame recedes a little, shrinks. _Not afraid of monsters, Cas. I DO feel every spark, and every god damn one of them is tearing my god damn heart out. And it DOES mean everything, because you mean everything, and there is no one, nothing else, not one god damn thing on this god damned planet that would make living bearable if you, this, got taken away. So I'm not afraid of a fucking monster. I'm afraid you'll stop touching me. I'm afraid that you might leave again. Afraid you might become GOD again. Afraid you could be hurt by one of your dickbag siblings or Christ knows what else. And afraid that even if none of that happens, I could fuck this up just by being an asshole._

_Dean--_

_Which, if you haven't noticed, is pretty much my best and only trick._

_Dean._ Cas' grace somehow softens, becomes less of lightning bolts and more the light of the moon. _If I leave, I will come back to you, always. If I become a god, I will raise you to the godhead with me and we will rule in heaven together, forever. If I die, I will climb back out of hell, again, and return to you. And I have seen your soul, and I am seeing it now, and I have seen what you have suffered and sacrificed for the good of a world that has been cruel to you, and I understand the paths of the stars and the position of every molecule of oxygen since the beginning of time, but I will never understand why you are so unkind to yourself, and there is nothing you could ever do, no betrayal, no violence, no heresy, that would ever change any of this. I Lo-_

Cas' syllable is interrupted when the column of flame suddenly, with no warning, quenches itself in darkness. Dean opens his eyes. "Cas," his voice only just more than a whisper, trembling. "Don't. Please. Don't." Pleading. "I can't. I can't." _If you say it, it's real. And if it's real it can be taken away._

_Let them come. I will destroy them._

_If it's real, I can ruin it, lose you._

_You can't. You won't._

_If it's real, it will end._

_We are one, and I am eternal. We are forever._

_..._

_..._

Castiel holds his breath. Stillness arrives within Dean, his thoughts a deep pool with a surface of silver glass. A stillness that is _waiting._ Waiting for Cas. Has always been waiting. Imperceptibly, he nods. Castiel's response is immediate.

"I love you."

Despite himself, Dean gasps, a sharp inhale. He has dreamt of hearing those words in Castiel's voice, but only in dark dreams where Castiel is begging him to stop hurting him, where he hurts Cas anyway and his heart breaks. He never thought he would hear them for real. He never thought he'd be able to hear behind them how long Castiel has been waiting to say them. He closes his eyes. _I can't breathe._ A long inhale. He opens them again.

"I have always loved you. Since the moment I saw you. Somehow, even before then. More than life, more than Heaven. I will love you forever."

He sees only blue eyes, and he is falling. And he is falling into the light, the heat, of the sun. And all around him as he falls are the stars, and they are the same color of blue as the eyes. "Cas." A hoarse whisper. "Cas." _I'm afraid. I can't-- Don't stop._

_At the end of time, my Father will return, to collapse the universe back in to nothingness. But time will not end, because I will still love you, and my love will fill the emptiness. Your soul will be the sun and my eyes will be the stars and a billion years after the end of time, when life emerges again, our love will be its creation, and they will wear jade jewelry and worship your eyes but their worship will be only a pale shadow of mine, eternal, unending, forever. This, I promise._

"Ok, Cas. Ok." _What did I ever do to deserve that? From anyone, let alone from you?_

_How many times do you have to save the world before you believe you are worthy of love, or even kindness?_

"At least one more, looks like." But Dean's bravado is even less effective than normal, because Cas can see, even as he scoffs, his light re-kindling. Steadier, now, than before, and somehow proud.

 

*****

"I love you." That's what Cas said. One of the things he said. In there with "forever" and "always" and "I promise." Cas had promised him his love ( _worship_ ) forever ( _a billion years after the end of time)._ He had wrapped his grace around Dean and sworn it, sworn it forever, with his eyes open so wide. Cas was so certain. So sure. Everywhere his grace touched Dean the contact was love, and it was like diamond, just as bright, just as hard, uncompressable, unshatterable, unscratchable, indestructible. _Forever._

But for Dean... _Forever_ is too heavy. _Forever_ is too hard. _Forever_ is terrifying, because _Forever_ gives Dean too much time to be an irrevocable asshole. Given forever, he will fail Cas, deceive him, hurt him, betray him. Cas' love is ethereal, celestial, glittering, perfect, and if he has forever, Dean will blacken it and drag it down out of the heavens into blood and gore and violence until it's not recognizable any more. Cas' promise was beautiful and it was sincere and perfect and _terrifying._ Dean feels like he is falling, _plummeting_ through that _forever._ He needs something to hold on to, something that is real, knowable, something that is not so huge, something he can live up to without fucking up.

"Cas?"

"Yes, Dean." Cas' fingers don't stop moving on Dean's cheek.

_Promise me you won't leave when I fall asleep._

_I promise._

_Promise me you'll watch over me in the night._

_I promise._

_Promise me you'll still be here when I wake up._

_I promise._

And, he can't help himself:  _Promise me that, when I'm better, you'll repeat whatever it was you were doing with those pork products._

_I promise,_ is Castiel's reply, and it's every bit as solemn as all the others.

These promises are bulwarks. Dean holds them tight and they slow his terrifying descent into  _forever._ He can sleep. He can be watched over in the night, by his angel. He can wake up and be hungry and eat breakfast. He has done these things before, without disaster or bloodshed. He can do them now, without hurting Cas and driving him away. These promises are small, and solid, real. He can wrap them around himself, they can stand between him and the cold of forever. So now instead of falling, plunging down into an unknowable depth under the weight of  _forever,_ Dean begins to feel light, light and strong both at once, like that crazy metal foam they use to build bridges; light as air, stronger than steel. He's so light, he begins to float. He floats so high, he looks down at Kansas and all he sees is gold, the sun reflecting off the corn fields. All around him are clouds, and black feathers, and when he floats so high he starts to see the stars, that is when he knows he is dreaming. But it is a good dream, because he knows that there is an angel watching over him. It is a good dream, because he knows the lightness won't leave him, even when he wakes up. Because Cas  _promised,_ and Dean believed him.

 

*****

When he wakes, at first, he thinks he is still dreaming, because Cas is still there. But then he knows he's _not_ dreaming, because Cas is still stroking his cheek, and his dreams are never this sweet. In his dreams Cas may hit him or stab him, may beg him for mercy or fuck him with reckless abandon, but his dream-Cas never touches him like this, like his fingers are a whisper that breathes _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ into his skin everywhere they touch. He shivers. _Cas._

"Why today?" Cas asks, maybe noticing that Dean is awake, but also maybe only lost in his thoughts and talking to himself. "Why never before?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't know. I just... When you touched me... It just felt good. I didn't want it to stop."

"I have touched you in exactly that manner numerous times."

"Yeah, well... You always took your fingers away before, when you were done healing me... Why didn't you this time?"

"I don't know."

Dean lifts both hands to the sky at this, in a gesture expressing "see? Feelings are mysterious as fuck." Cas thinks about it some more. Feelings may be difficult to express (or at least, Cas knows, this is Dean's position) but at least they are finite; Cas thinks he should be able to understand his with more insight than "I don't know," especially when they are as important as his feelings for Dean.

"I was light, before I came to you," he says softly, still stroking Dean's cheek, in fact content to do so forever, if Dean would allow it. "I was pure energy, and I was golden and I could move so fast. I was free, I soared."

_So beautiful, Cas._ Dean doesn't say this out loud. He feels his face warming.

"When you prayed to me, I returned to my body, to come to you as fast as I could. And it was so heavy. So slow, stupid."

_I just dragged you down. I always drag you down._ Cas feels Dean's shame. Cas glares at him, narrow eyed.  _Never. Listen._

"When I saw you were suffering... I would have turned myself to stone to stop it. I would have given you my grace until there was nothing left-"

_I Don't deserve-_

_LISTEN._

"And then I touched you. And I realized that when I was light, I wasn't soaring, I was chained to the earth with iron and coal. I wasn't free, I was confined to a tomb filled only with darkness. I wasn't weightless, I was made of black marble, cold as ice. That's how being made of light feels, compared to touching you."

Silence.

"So maybe that's why I didn't take my fingers away, today."

"Cas. God. Cas." _Touch me, then. Show me. I can't stand it if you're caged. Want you to be free._

"I want to touch your mouth, and your eyelids."

"Yes."

"I want to touch your throat, and the place on your neck where I can see your blood beating."

"Yes."

"I want to--

"Yes, Cas, yes," _Everywhere_.

Cas' hands start to move, then. Angel of the lord for all of time, he knows of worship, and it is this that he shows Dean now, with his hands. They are so slow, and their pressure so light. Holding Dean's face. Lips, eyelids, lips, the touch of his fingers lighter than breath. He praises Dean with his hands, he adores. And Dean is frozen, frozen by the magnitude of his need for Castiel to keep touching him, frozen by how good it feels, frozen by fear that Cas will decide to stop and never start again. Maybe Dean is brave, but he cannot open his eyes. Maybe Dean is brave, but his heart is crystal, easily shattered, under Cas' touch.

But Cas is patient, he is gentle. His hands are slow, and deliberate, and they never, ever, leave Dean's body. _Beautiful,_ tracing the veins of Dean's throat. _Perfect,_ lacing his fingers into Dean's hands. _So strong,_ following the contour of Dean's hips. _Mine,_ wrapping his hands around Dean's waist. _My love,_ burying his eyes in Dean's neck. And again and again. _Heaven-_ throat, _we are one-_ hands, _so good-_ hips, _need you-_ waist, _love you-_ neck. Again, and again. _Never get enough-have to have you-all of you-like air-like breath-my everything-forever-Dean-Dean-Dean-Dean-Dean,_ over, and over, until the ice holding Dean still melts, and Dean stirs, and it is to take Castiel's hand in his own and press it to his lips in a slow kiss, a kiss that devastates Castiel with its need. And then another kiss, and another, taking each of Castiel's fingers in his mouth one by one until he has taken them all and then starting over again, the pressure of his mouth perfect, showing Cas how much he needs him.

"Dean," it is gravel, it is lust. It goes straight to Dean's dick and stays there, thrums. "Dean," it is almost a choke.

"You like that, Cas? You like it when I take you in my mouth?" He takes an extra long, extra slow, taste of Cas' first finger. His voice is quiet, dangerous.

_Yes, heaven, yes, Dean, yes._

_Need you, angel. Need you so much._

"Dean,"

_Want to make you feel so good._

"Dean,"

_Want you._

"Dean,"

  _If I kiss you, will you stay? Or are you gonna fly away again?_ He takes Cas' index finger, already slick with saliva, into his mouth as he asks this, sucking, teasing, _promising._

Cas can barely find the _mens rea_ to answer, he is shuddering so hard in his body, his brain crashing from the sensation.

_How could I..._

_Dean, please..._

_I want, I need..._

_Dean, please..._

His mind is broken on the pressure of Dean's mouth, he is incoherent with need. He no longer has the cognitive capacity to make his mouth work, it seems, to answer Dean's question, to explain what he wants (Dean, all of Dean), and what he is willing to do for it (anything) but he finds his hands are easier, simpler to control. He digs his fingers into Dean's hips, bruising hard, and hopes that Dean will understand what it means.That he hates leaving Dean. That he hates even the possibility of it so much that he misses Dean, even now, pressed together, grace and soul entwined.

Dean does understand, maybe even better than he would have if Cas had responded with words, instead of with actions, with hands on his body. He kisses Castiel then. Deep, and slow, hiding nothing, holding nothing back, allowing nothing to be hidden.

For Dean, it is like breaking a vow of silence; acting on a want that has been forbidden. And then finding not only a voice, but a voice that is sweet as honey, pure as the white fire of the stars. He kisses Castiel with his whole body. It is hot, and slow. Cas' mouth is innocent, and it opens to him, soft and accepting as he presses in deep. Dean has sold his soul, and he would do it again, for this. Gladly, for this.

For Cas, it is like every molecule in his body is vibrating just a little faster, a little harder, in the interstitial spaces, until he fears he will break apart, that the spaces between his cells will become so great that he will collapse into a mass of oxygen, and hydrogen, and nitrogen, and be Castiel no longer. Cas has Fallen from the grace of Heaven, and he would do it again, for this. Gladly, for this.

Dean is kissing him, that is what is happening, and he wraps his arms around Dean's chest so he can cling while his mind tries to break through the shock. But Dean's mouth is so soft and so hard against his own. But Dean's lips are on his and Dean's tongue is in his mouth and Dean's hands are on his body. Dean is kissing him, and it feels so good he just tries to _stand_ it. And he can't, he can't, not when he knows what Dean tastes like now. Not when Dean could stop kissing him but doesn't. Not when Dean is pressing in to him and he can open and draw him in deeper. Not when he can't breathe unless Dean does. Not when his lips are swollen and they should hurt but they don't and he pulls at Dean's shirt so Dean will kiss him harder. Not when Dean smiles against his mouth and asks, _You like that, angel?_

"Dean," it is torn out of him, from deep in his throat, a ragged pant. He is blushing, hard, hot blood rushing into his face. His heart is racing, it has been since this madness began. His erection presses warm, heavy, into Dean's hip, and he moves slowly, experimentally, against Dean, barely aware he is doing it, only knowing that he has to, that it feels so good. Dean keeps smiling, and Cas' eyes roll back in his head as Dean kisses down his jaw, to his neck, and stays there, sucking the hot blood rushing towards Cas' face to the surface as it passes through his neck, scraping with his teeth, matching the pressure of his mouth with the rhythm of Cas' hips. "Dean, oh Dean..."

"Wanna feel your skin. Wanna touch you, feel how warm you are. Want you to be able to feel me. Can I?" Dean's hands pause at the top button of Cas' shirt.

"Yes," a hot whisper. "Yes, Dean," a fast, gasping breath.

Dean's hands slip up to the base of Cas' throat, to undo the knot in Cas' tie, like he has imagined himself doing so, so many times. But in his dreams, his hands didn't shake like this, with a tremor that travels all the way up his arms and vibrates in his galloping heart. He laughs at himself, silently, drops his head, tries again, and this time is able to loosen the knot enough to slip the tie off over Cas' head. Now, reality plays on more like his daydreams, as Cas gasps for breath and ranges fingers through Dean's hair in uncoordinated, rough, pulls, while Dean unbuttons his shirt, pulls its tails from his pants, and slides it, and the trench coat, down over his arms. Gently, he guides Cas over to lay on his back and kneels over him, one leg on each side of his body, possessing. Cas' skin, now bare, is golden in the lamplight. Dean takes a moment to stare, breathless, to try to make himself believe that this is really happening. Cas' head is turned to the side; his eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed, his breath ragged; he arches his back, just a little, to press harder into Dean.

"Beautiful, Cas," _My angel._

"Dean," another gasp, "you have to touch me, you have to, please," he arches just a little more.

Smiling, again, his heart full of Cas and Cas' skin and Cas' eyes & Cas' promises, "I know, angel, I will. Gonna feel you everywhere. Gonna find out all your secrets."

"I don't have any secrets Dean, not from you, not any more, please,"

"You don't? Don't have even one secret for me?" He kisses, bites at the soft place behind Cas' ear, then, and, at the same time, palms Cas' nipple, hard.

"I don't, ah, I don't understand what you want, ah,"

"Want you to tell me somethin'. Something you never told me before. Wanna know that you're all mine," mouth moving against Cas' jaw, his neck.

"I ah, uh," stammering, a jolt through his body as Dean scratches over his ribs, bluntly, with his nails. "I used to watch you rake leaves. You didn't know I was there. In Cicero. I watched you. So many times when you didn't know, I watched you."

"My angel, watchin' over me." Lips on Cas' Adam's apple, wet. "What did you think about, when you were spying on me, angel?"

"How... How I loved you. Wanted you. Wished I could reveal myself to you. That you'd take me in your arms. That maybe you missed me too, that you'd tell me."

"I did miss you." Kissing Cas' collarbone now, tongue warm, teeth sharp. "Did want you. Always wanted you, Cas. Castiel." _Gonna show you._

 

*****

And he does. He takes his time, moving warm and slow, sure, over Cas. He concentrates on Cas' body, the movements of his hands and mouth there deliberate, like he is casting a spell that is delicate and powerful, one he has studied, reverent, the sequence of touches written in gold. His body on Cas' makes lust bloom between them, dark, fragrant, blotting out the parts of their brains that worry, reason, fear. And he goes slow, so slow, and every time Cas can't bear it any more, and frantic, starts to lose control, he eases him back with an _Easy, angel,_ or a _Go slow for me,_ because this is their first time and it's not just some blow job in some bar bathroom and he wants it to last, to be _real._ For Cas, who deserves better, and maybe for himself, too.

Dean focuses hard on Cas, on touching him purposefully and observing every response to those touches: does his breath speed up or does he gasp or does he stop breathing, does he call Dean's name or bite his tongue or chase Dean's mouth with his own, does he cling to Dean's back or pull his hair or lace their hands together, does he shiver or does hot blood rush to his skin in a blush, do his pupils dilate or do his eyes roll back in his head or does he close them completely. Dean is so intent on Castiel, absorbed in him, that his soul, on fire still, on fire all this time with Cas beside him, starts to take on the blue cast of Castiel's grace and throw sparks, like lightning.

Castiel loses himself so completely in the sensation of Dean--his lips, his tongue, his calloused hands, the warm press of his body, his scent and how it is different, heavier, now than it usually is, the color of his eyes and how they are so black now, the sounds he makes as he kisses, and sucks, and just breathes, the salt on his skin, the roughness in his voice when he says _Cas, stay with me, angel,_ \-- that his grace starts to blaze a little, flicker like flame.Dean concentrating on Cas, Cas lost in Dean, grace blazing like a soul on fire, soul sparking, azure, like lightning, the two become one, grace and soul, indistinguishable by any means of angels or men, no spaces or boundaries between them, only light, a nova, blinding, pure. Any evil that would dare stand against them would be eradicated, annihilated, by this light.

Body and vessel, too, become one. Dean: buried in Cas, golden sparks flying behind his eyes, Cas hot and tight and perfect around him. Wanting it to last forever. Thinking that it has never been like this. So many times, so many ways, so many partners, and it has never been like this. Compared to this, it has never been anything. Cas: trying to draw Dean in deeper, deeper, no matter how deep he goes, how hard, wanting more and more and more and more. Wanting more even when he whimpers, and cries out from the pain, the pressure. Thinking that he could never have enough of Dean, never. That he didn't understand what a body was for, before this, why anyone would want one, fragile, impermanent, rotting from the inside out from the moment of birth. But now, now he understands, he has a body so he can hallow Dean with it. He has a body so he can feel _this._

He cries out Dean's name when they come, together, eyes open, hands clasped, breathless.

 

*****

When Dean wakes again, after, Cas is crying beside him. Hot, silent tears streaming out of his eyes, down his cheeks. "What's the matter, Cas," he asks, voice still soft with sleep, and love. "Why you cryin'?"

"I didn't know," Cas' voice is weak, "light of heaven, I didn't know it could feel like that. I didn't know we could be one, again. I wouldn't have resisted. Nothing, no fear, no evil, could have kept me from you, from this. But, Dean, I didn't know. I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

"Hey. Hey, Cas, shh," Dean comforts, and rolls Cas over, into his arms, not quite understanding, yet, still dull from sleep, from happiness. "Shhhh. What?"

Cas' body breaks into wracking, shaking sobs, as he clings to Dean. "When I raised you, Dean, we were one. I carried your soul inside me, protected it, as I battled Legion to escape the Pit. And I held you close, and tight, because you were a great prize for Hell and they sent many to stop me, and I slew many, and many more, and the battle was fierce, and long, but you were safe within me, far, far within, and we were one, grace and soul, then."

"Cas," Dean didn't know this, though he's not sure what exactly, he'd thought had happened-- maybe that they'd snuck out? He tries not to dwell on anything Hell-related or Hell-adjacent.

"And when I smote the fury of the Lord upon them, every one, and Hell was empty of evil creatures to be sent before me, I drew you forth, and I rebuilt you, every atom, molecule, cell, I rebuilt you, my grace the clay that built your body and the animus that gave it life. And we were one, grace and body, then."

"Cas," this part Dean did know, of course, that Cas had brought him back from the dead, marked with his handprint. Though, he tries not to think about that too much either, because that was when he had to crawl out of his own grave, so, not in his top ten favorite memories.

"And then I released you, back to where you had fallen, in Pontiac, and then you were gone and I was so _empty."_ Cas convulses with a sob, now, his voice breaking. "I was half of what I had been, when we were one. Half as brave. Half as strong. Half as righteous, half as sure. _And I thought that I would never be whole again."_ He is crying so hard now, he cannot talk, shaking.

"Cas, Cas," Dean tries to soothe, holding Cas tight, stroking his back, his neck, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. "I didn't remember. When I came back... It was hard, I wasn't right. I didn't remember."

"I know." Cas is quiet now, like he has cried his voice away. "You didn't know me. When you saw me... You put a knife through my heart. You hoped it would kill me."

Dean is guilty of this, and he closes his eyes, thinking back to what it had been like, those first months, with Cas. Cas always appeared too close, inside his space, as if there were no boundaries between them, and Dean would step back, away. Cas was always watching him sleep, no matter how many times he told him not to, like Dean meant something to him, like Dean was something that he wanted to protect. Cas said that their bond was _profound_ , and he didn't know what that meant, and he didn't care and he didn't ask, because he had spent 30 years on the rack and it was all he could do just to hold it together. His stomach lurches when he realizes how much of _rejection_ Cas must have perceived in his behavior. They had been one, in all ways, joined, and Dean had acted like they were _strangers._ Like Cas' touch was off-putting, unwanted. Like _Cas_ was unwanted. Cas, who had held him tight and saved him from damnation. "I didn't remember," he says again, though now it is a hoarse whisper, horrified.

Cas whispers, too. "I could stand so close to you, as close as you would let me, and you were still so far away. And you didn't... You didn't," he can hardly get it out "You didn't want me to come closer."

"I didn't remember," Dean repeats himself, in horror.

"And I was afraid-- to come nearer, to tell you-- afraid because I thought maybe then you would send me away, wouldn't let me be near you at all. And I couldn't... I couldn't..." Cas chokes on stuttering tears. "I couldn't."

"Cas," Dean is strong and his heart is banded with iron, but it still beats and a part of it breaks off now, because Cas is crying, and Cas is crying because of him. Beautiful Cas, his angel, his savior, suffering, and it's his fault. He closes his eyes and hates himself in black silence while Cas goes on.

"I was afraid, so afraid, of what I felt, of how it would hurt if you found out and turned me away. I was empty but at least I had you, a little bit, I had the way you looked at me and I had your prayers, sometimes, and I thought maybe that could be enough. But I didn't know it could be like that, Dean. I'm so sorry. All this time, everything I wanted-- I'm so sorry. All this time, we could have been one, if I hadn't been afraid." He looks away from Dean, crying, still. "We could have been one'" he whispers, eyes downcast, into his pillow.

"Cas, shhh don't cry, baby, shhh," Dean comforts, appalled that Cas is blaming something on himself that is clearly Dean's fault; for forgetting, for pushing him away, for just generally being an asshole. "It's not your fault, Cas, don't apologize. I'm the one that forgot _._ I'm the one that put space between us that never should have been there, even though you fought me every inch of the way." _I'm the one that didn't tell you how much I wanted you, every minute that we were together._

"Dean," Cas tries to interrupt, and Dean knows that it will just be to forgive him, when he doesn't deserve it, so he keeps right on talking.

"I'm sorry, Cas. You don't know how sorry. For everything. For all my scared bullshit and every time I wanted to kiss your fucking eyes off and didn't because of it," now a tear falls from Dean's eye, and he brushes it away, unsympathetically, impatient with himself. "But I got you now, ok? You hear me? I got you. And there is nothing, _nothing_ , that is gonna make me let go of you, ever again. It's not gonna happen. Ever. You gotta believe me. I swear it, by your dick Father and every one of his douche angels. By Baby and Sam's ridiculous haircut, I swear it. Never."

And isn't this the promise that scared him, when Cas offered it? The promise of forever that made him feel like he was falling into the black, and dragging Cas down with him? He was so afraid, then, why is he not afraid now? Why does his mouth want to keep babbling more promises, _Forever, always, mine, my angel, never again?_ Maybe because he knows what it feels like to kiss Cas, now, and what it feels like for Cas to kiss him back. Maybe because now he knows that Cas-- his angel, beautiful, so fierce-- wants him, wants him so bad that it makes him sob, and dig his fingers in until they bruise, and growl if he pulls away. Now he knows, and he does not deserve it, God, he does not deserve it, but now he knows what it feels like like to come inside of Cas, while Cas _stares_ at him, his eyes so deep, so blue, liquid, worshipful, loving him, unmistakably loving him. Loving him with _everything_. That feeling--he wants it forever. He wants to chase it, again, and again, forever. And he wants Cas to _know_. How good it felt. How much it meant. How he wants more, how he could never get enough.

He takes Cas' fingers to his mouth, again, kissing each one, before holding Cas' hand steady over his heart. His voice is gruff, but his eyes are wet. "I promise you, Cas. Believe me. Forgive me. I promise you. I'm gonna be right there with you at the end of time, and God fucking help anything that tries to get in my way."

_I believe you Dean. I'll always believe you. I'll always forgive you. I'll always love you. Always._

 

*****

Sam starts to worry on the third day. Three days of silence. He knows that Dean is sick, but, usually, when Dean is sick, he's unbearable-- he wants a pillow, he wants a blanket. He wants a sandwich, he wants a pizza. He wants the TV remote, he wants his laptop. He wants Sam to be his nurse, basically. So why is he so quiet, all of a sudden? Why isn't Sam getting any texts, like he had last time Dean was sick, like "Grilled cheese, Sammy. NOW1. I MIGHT DIE. [sick emoticon]." There's no Dean in the kitchen, mixing together every kind of ice cream with every kind of candy they have. No Dean in the living room, telling him to shut his trap if he asks him if he's ok because he's trying to listen to Dr. Sexy. No delivery guy showing up at the bunker with a bag of General Tso's chicken large enough to kill.

On the third day, he approaches Dean's door and raises his fist to knock. He hesitates for a moment, because what if Dean is sleeping? Or what if Dean is avoiding him on purpose? And then he hears it. He hears, distinctly, and with no ambiguity, a very male, very deep voice, cry out, "Dean." Maybe _groan_ is a better word for it than _cry._ Sam's fist freezes in the air. It can't be. It CAN'T be. It can't be. Could it... Could it be? Could that voice have been... Could he have just heard Cas cry-- _groan--_ out Dean's name? From inside of Dean's room, where Dean has been noticeably, nay, _suspiciously_ quiet for the last three days? He hears it again, " _Dean,_ ". This one is more of a gasp. This second piece of evidence in hand, Sam's fist will now definitely not be knocking, and instead he pumps it into the air, a silent "YES" and a moose-sized grin exploding on his face. He turns his back on the door, and fairly skips back to the library, where he had been studying, fists bumping and punching giddily in the air. YES. FINALLY. If only he had known that all it was going to take was a case of the sniffles, he would have taken Dean's toothbrush to the nearest daycare center and rubbed it on every runny nose in the place. He can't stop smiling. FINALLY. YES.


End file.
